


Happier

by geographer



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Child Abuse, Depression, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2266479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geographer/pseuds/geographer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Brian attempts suicide at the age of 17, and his survival means more than just continuing to breathe. As the years go on, he struggles with the depression that's a part of him, but it all becomes a little harder when love gets thrown into the mix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I heard about QAF through tumblr and binge-watched the entire show in a matter of weeks. This is the result, and the final word count will be upwards of 20,000. The title comes from the song "Happier" by Guster. Thanks for reading!

There's always been a second, malign sort of shadow nipping at his heels, and Brian thinks it first catches up to him one sunny morning in March. A Sabbath day.

He's fourteen years old, all slender body and unkempt auburn hair, and he's made an early habit of disappointing his mother. Despite her painstaking care to rouse him that morning and march him to church, he's abandoned his altar server albs and instead sits just outside the last stall of the men's bathroom, the window pane cool beneath him. He slides the cigarette between his lips and breathes in.

Brian can't say that he really enjoys smoking, because he doesn't. When he thinks about it, smoking seems a lot like religion. Both overwhelm his senses, both have made him want to vomit. But Brian likes what tobacco does: it numbs him, and it pisses off his parents.

He turns to the open window behind him, tugging his jacket tighter around his shoulders, and exhales. He admires how his breath and the smoke mingle to make it seem like his soul is fleeing out into the brisk air. He would like to stay longer, but from down the hall, the loud shuffle of feet alerts Brian to the fact that mass is nearly over, and that his father is about to reintroduce him to the sin of Wrath.

Once he joins the crowd filtering out into the parking lot, it doesn't take him long to spot his parents alongside a distressed Clare. Joan's jaw is clenched tight with anger. His father, on the other hand, appears calm. But Brian knows better.

He falls into step beside his sister.

"Where were you?" she growls.

"Why?" Brian asks. "Did Jesus miss me?"

"Shut up, Brian."

In the moments before they reach their old, musty sedan, Claire stops him. She waits until their parents climb in before she turns back to Brian.

"Look," Claire begins. "I know how it is. Do you think I like her throwing me into these dresses every week? But you can't do this, Bri. You know how mad it makes them. You know what dad will do once he realizes you reek of cigarettes, right?"

"I do," Brian replies, quietly.

"Then why do you do it?"

He doesn't have an answer, or at least not one that he can put into words. Claire only sighs before they each get into the backseat of the car, where silence greets them like a plague.

The short drive home is tense but uneventful, much like the hours that follow. Brian is left to his own devices, but Claire remains close. Her presence is comforting, for once. She had plans, he thinks, but she's wary of what Jack might do in her absence.

 _She's afraid for me,_ Brian realizes. He pales at the thought. Normally, he would tell Claire to forget about him, to go out with her friends, and that he could take care of himself. But today feels off, though he doesn't know why. He feels so very young, and not half as brave as before.

It isn't until dinner, over minestrone and a glass of wine, that Joan finally speaks to him.

"You were an embarrassment to this family today," she states. "I didn't know what to tell Father Colb when you refused to help bring forward the gifts and just walked off like that.

"You could have told him the truth," Brian answers simply. "I don't want to hear his sermons. I don't want to go to church."

"You're going," Jack says. "From now on, you're gonna' sit in that pew and shut up."

Beside Brian, Claire nervously pushes the food around her plate. He can almost feel her stiffen at his reply.

"No."

The minutes afterward are a wild blur. Brian can recall a dreadful quiet, his mother nodding to his father, and most of all the heaviness in his feet as Jack leads him into the next room. The lash of the belt feels sharper now, like his mother's tongue. His parents were ashamed before, but today something's changed. Today, they've begun to hate him.

**************

 

Earlier that year, when the Kinney family had moved to Pittsburgh from a small town perilously close to Amish country, Brian still couldn't quite wash the taste of his gym teacher from his mouth.

It's strange to say that the timing had been perfect, considering that Brian was ripped out of his freshman year of high school and transferred into a completely new environment halfway through the grading period. But Mr. Howard had been growing more insistent up until the departure, and Brian was struggling to explain that it was a mistake, and that he never should have blown his teacher in the first place. It was an outburst of anger brought on by trouble at home, and nothing more. Brian had no desire to become a mistress. The teacher seemed unfazed, however. And so in the end, Jack Kinney unknowingly solved the problem that he caused.

A new job in a new city.

It's the monday after the church incident, and Brian sits in his afternoon Biology class, watching rain fall outside and dreading the journey home. Voices mix together in the chaos of group work, but he can't seem to snag a partner, so he's given up. He closes his notebook and puts it away. His back and ass are sore from the beating, and the thought of throwing his backpack over his shoulder for the umpteenth time today exhausts him. Aggravating the fresh marks is frighteningly painful. Worse yet, Jack has promised a reprisal.

He doesn't want to go back.

"Hey, Brian?" asks a timid and unfamiliar voice. "It is Brian, right?"

The apparent man of the hour looks over at his classmate, a shorter kid with black hair and some kind of comic book gripped protectively in his hand.

"That's me," Brian responds. "The, uh, new kid."

A chuckle.

"I guessed," the kid says. "I'm Michael."

"Too formal."

"What?"

"You heard," Brian begins. "Too formal. I'll call you Mikey."

Michael appears thoroughly astonished.

"We've known each other for thirty seconds and you're already giving me a new name?"

Brian reigns in a would-be eye roll.

"Oh, please, it's a nickname. Is there something you wanted?"

"I was just wondering if you were doing anything after school."

"Free as a fucking bird," Brian affirms.

"That's a vivid image," Mikey smiles. "Do you need to tell your parents or anything? Will they be okay with it?"

 _They'll be pissed,_ Brian knows.

"They won't miss me," he says instead, pausing to contemplate whether or not he can even classify it as a lie.

"Sweet!"

When the dismissal bell rings, Brian suddenly realizes that he's been roped into going home with a doe-eyed stranger. Is it too late to back out? It is. Shit.

They walk back to Mikey's place, which is a good-sized townhouse not far from the school itself. On the way, Mikey asks Brian where he's from, how long he's been in Pittsburgh, and even if he's heard of some superhero called Captain Astro.

"Can't say that I have," Brian admits, charmed by his enthusiasm. The front door closes behind them. Brian finds himself glancing at the carpet before he looks up, straight into the friendly face of a woman. Mikey's mom.

"Well, shit," she exclaims. "Aren't you fuckin' adorable!"

Her name is Debbie Novotny, and her hair is redder than blood. She sits Brian down not a moment later, telling him that he doesn't need to look so damned terrified. A mug of coffee is thrust into his hands with what Brian has no trouble believing is a trademark smile, but Debbie doesn't seem to notice him wince as he shifts in the chair. He almost wishes that she would.

The Novotny family is small, Brian notes. Only a mother and son, no father or siblings to speak of. Mikey has an uncle, though. A man named Vic of whom Mikey speaks fondly.

"My mom wants him to move in with us," he says. "I hope he does. He gets really sick sometimes."

Brian and Mikey talk for hours while they review the Bio homework. Their rapport is so surprising, so natural, that when Brian's chest begins to ache, he knows that it's from laughter. It's been a long time since he's laughed at all.

"Why did you invite me here?" Brian suddenly asks. "I mean, we'd never talked before."

Mikey contemplates that for a moment before giving an answer.

"You looked really lonely. Kind of sad. I know how that feels."

Brian nods, and then the conversation takes a different direction altogether.

Debbie invites him to stay for dinner, but it's dark outside, and he's gripped with anxiety at the thought of his parents waiting for him. With a sincere goodbye to Mikey and a promise that yes, of course he'd be over again tomorrow, Brian accepts Debbie's offer of a ride home.

"Take care of yourself, honey," she tells him as they pull up in front of his house. He returns her smile feebly, then exits the car and watches her drive off.

His parents ask him where he's been, and he tells them. The moment he mentions Debbie's name, his mother's eyes light up, all anger gone.

"I've met her in church," she notes approvingly, and that's the end of it.

The next day, Brian keeps his promise to Mikey, and also the day after, and then the next, until he starts to become a perpetual guest of the Novotny household.

And as such, he sees everything. He sees how this fatherless family is far better off than his. He sees that Debbie loves her son fiercely, despite the fact that Mikey's gay, just like him.

He had never planned on testing that love, never wanted to. But as months pass by and Jack rediscovers his passion for whiskey, Brian is reminded most nights that he has a family of his own. The cigarettes make a comeback, as does the marijuana, and unlike before, Mikey is right there. Brian needs him.

He can feel Debbie's eyes on him when he moves through her house. She knows about it all. Every late night, every smoked joint. And even still, she shows Brian nothing but tenderness. He isn't brave enough to apologize to her for what he is.

Brian loves that house more than anywhere else in Pittsburgh, anywhere else in the world. Passing through Debbie's front door is like falling to his knees after a sprint, or like coming home. But he'll never tell her. No, he couldn't.

***************

 

Brian is fifteen when he goes to New York City on a class trip and learns that he is desirable, and very much so.

They go everywhere that a good tourist of the city should. The Met, Times Square, Central Park, and even Lower Manhattan. Brian tries to hide the fact that he's absolutely enchanted, while Mikey seems focused on something else. Brian isn't sure what, not exactly. Not until Mikey gives it away at the tail-end of the weekend excursion, just as they're making their way to the train station.

"I've been keeping track of all the guys that've checked you out today," Mikey laughs. Bundled up in heavy coats, they brave the November cold side by side. Teachers guide their respective students through the crowded streets, which is much harder than one would think, considering that a good fraction of them are staring up toward the thirtieth floor of some building or another.

Brian grins.

"How many?"

"Nineteen, at least."

_Twenty, including you._

Yes, Brian is desirable. There've been a few clues scattered along the way, of course. Mr. Howard's interest had spoken volumes, for one. But nothing is as sincere or as flattering as his best friend's newfound infatuation with him.

A lot has changed between Brian and Mikey.

That past summer, they'd experimented after staring at a picture of Patrick Swayze shirtless in a magazine. Brian had wrapped his hand around Mikey's cock, stroked it. It'd gone further than Brian had expected when Debbie strolled into the bedroom to collect her son's laundry. Mikey nearly died of shock right there on the bed.

Ever since, Mikey has treated him with even greater reverence than before. Brian has a power over him. He tries not to abuse it too badly.

But there's something else. Mikey knows about Jack's temper, and even about Mr. Howard. Worse yet, he's told Debbie everything.

"Don't worry," Mikey had tried to assure Brian after his confession about Howard. "You were just a horny kid. One day you'll laugh about it."

For a while he'd kept his mouth shut, but then he saw Brian become withdrawn, and the bruises on his best friend's back as they changed for gym class. That must've been when Mikey decided that none of what was going on with Brian was healthy or natural.

"Is it your father?" Debbie demanded. "That son of a bitch is the one hurting you, isn't he?"

When he told her that Jack was the culprit, and that he doesn't even know that Brian is gay, she flew off the handle. Brian had to beg her not to call the police. She relented, but only after paying Jack a visit and threatening him with what she knew. As for Mr. Howard, while the thought of Brian's little tryst in the shower turned her stomach, she agreed that it was best left alone for the teen's sake.

Nonetheless, Brian has been living with Deb and Mikey for several weeks while things calm down. He sleeps on an old mattress on the floor of Mikey's room, and finds that he loves being able to walk downstairs without fear of being reprimanded for something the moment his feet meet the hardwood.

Jack has stopped by twice. The first time, he was swaying and belligerent, and Debbie locked him out of the house. He finally drove off when he decided that the cold was too much to bear. The second visit was better, but as he sat down with Brian and spoke to him, Mikey refused to leave the room. Brian was grateful.

The subject of that conversation was clear. Brian needs to go back home. The moment the train arrives in Pittsburgh, he'll be expected to gather his things. He I can't go on disrupting others' lives.

Brian is pulled from his troubling thoughts by the group's entrance to Penn Station. All around him are men in suits, Brooklyn girls in scarves. Some pause briefly to look him over, but most push past him like he's just another obstacle to overcome.

"Twenty," Mikey counts.

 _Twenty-one,_ Brian wants to correct. He doesn't.

As they wait for the train, a college a capella group performs in the terminal. They sound wonderful, and it isn't just because of the acoustic. Mikey must think so too, because he goes over to watch and leaves Brian on his own for the first time in days.

Brian stares at the advertisements posted on every free stretch of wall, stone or otherwise. A poster for Viagra makes him crack a smile, but as he glances over every hyped product, every upcoming charity event, he notices a series of ads advocating against domestic violence. They seem out of place and exactly where they should be, all at once.

That's when his thoughts run a little wild. Suddenly, those ads are about his own life instead. He begins to imagine his father's face plastered up high on the walls for everyone to see.

"This is an alcoholic," the imaginary posters read. "This is a monster who beats his son until he bleeds."

Brian blinks, shakes his head. He can still hear music.

He goes over to join Mikey.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian finally succumbs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter absolutely gutted me. That is all. Despite that, thanks for reading! Also, reviews always help keep the juices flowing so *nudge nudge*

There's a place in Pittsburgh called Liberty Avenue, where men Brian has never met try to slip their arms around his waist, and buy him drinks in hopes of a very specific return on investment.   
  
_"Hey, Sexy,"_ they breathe into his ear, even when he's too high to care. He's changed a lot in the past two years, become almost unrecognizable. They love his green eyes, his broad shoulders, his movie-star smile. They want him. Every piece of him. And he wants them too.   
  
_"Hey yourself."_  
  
Brian really should know better. But at seventeen, he's already as broken as he is beautiful.   
  
Since New York, Brian has been spending every free minute trying to improve his relationship with Jack. He sits through church, though it nearly kills him, considering that the priest's sermons are for shit. He continues to excel in his classes. He even accompanies his father to his weekly bowling sessions, where he'll listen to all his overweight, conservative friends make fag jokes and not even flinch. During these hours, Brian takes passivity and turns it into an art.  
  
When he goes home and locks himself away in his bedroom, he seethes. He takes pride in the fact that he never misses a pin, and wishes that Jack's little club could know that they've been put to shame by a homo. But they'll never know. Not unless they ask Brian outright, and they never will. For now, he hasn't lied to anyone, and that's enough. He blends in.   
  
At night, though, Brian lives only for himself. He discovers the clubs largely on his own initiative, desperate for both figurative and literal release. He drinks, dances, fucks indiscriminately. He vanishes for only a couple hours at a time so that his parents don't even realize he's gone. Sometimes he drags Mikey along with him. All in all, Brian is so quiet. So careful.   
  
So when his life begins to fall apart in spite of that, he's more than a little surprised.   
  
He's returning home from a Calc exam one afternoon in October when he hears his parents call him into the dining room. They're seated at the table when he walks in, looking very grim. His mother is, in any case. Jack is unreadable.  
  
"Jesus," Brian lets out a nervous laugh. "Who died?"  
  
His father shakes his head.  
  
"No one, Brian. Just sit down."  
  
Brian obeys, if a bit hesitantly. A wave of unease settles over him. The chair creaks a little under his weight.   
  
"Your father and I wanted to talk to you," Joan begins. "About college."  
  
"What about it?"  
  
Quiet.   
  
"We won't be paying," Jack finally admits. He says it so bluntly, so quickly, that it's almost like he isn't breaking his son's heart.   
  
"Did I do something to piss you off?" Brian asks, stupidly. "School has never been a p-"  
  
"It isn't you," Joan assures. "Your father and I are just trying to save for our retirement."  
  
Brian stares at them blankly.  
  
"What am I supposed to do?"  
  
"If you want to go, you can work to pay your way. Same as I did at your age. Or you could go into the military," Jack answers.   
  
Brian tries not to laugh at the the thought of the sort of welcome he'd receive in the armed forces. He succeeds. But only by the skin of his teeth.  
  
"Tuition is rising every year," Brian explains.  "I won't be able to afford it with some shitty part-time job."  
  
"Brian," his mother warns.  
  
"I know," he groans, his head in his hands. "I know. Fine. I understand."  
  
"You don't. You're upset."  
  
"I don't need your help. I can do it on my own."   
  
_I don't know if I can. I didn't expect this to happen._   
  
He really didn't. Brian's parents are frugal, but he never anticipated that they would risk giving up bragging rights regarding his university education. With his grades, he could attend just about any school he wants. He also happens to know that his parents already have more than enough money saved for their retirement years.   
  
He's almost eighteen. They just want him gone and off the ledger. He's more trouble than he's worth.   
  
Brian continues going to school, becomes paranoid over whether or not his parents know about his moonlighting, and if they're simply too scandalized to bring it up. Or maybe they just haven't forgiven him for freshman year. That thought hurts much more.   
  
While Junior year had started off well enough, it quickly becomes a whirlwind of SAT prep and early college applications. Brian walks the halls, sick with envy whenever a classmate mentions that they've received a sizable scholarship. He has to refrain from becoming a murderer when a jock complains about being accepted to Yale but not Harvard.   
  
And so, while maintaining his flawless academic performance, Brian isolates himself from his peers. Very few of them have ever actually spoken to him, anyway, so it isn't all that difficult. There's only a bit of confusion when all the cynical remarks suddenly disappear from his classes.   
  
"You should go to Allegheny Community College with me," Mikey suggests one day when Brian looks particularly troubled. "I know how ambitious you are, but it's better than nothing, right?"  
  
It is. But Brian can't picture himself there. Not at all. He needs to figure something out.   
  
He begins applying for jobs. For a position at the local library, as a general store clerk, as a waiter at the Italian restaurant downtown. Anything that he can find that would aid in his preemptive effort to save up money. A few weeks later, the handsome restaurant manager flirts with Brian and is prepared to offer him the job on the spot, but Brian ultimately takes the job at the store due to its more flexible hours. He's still a student, after all.   
  
Despite his best efforts, though, it's hard. Every day after class, he bids farewell to Mikey and heads to work, where he writes essays and finishes problem sets in between checkouts. He skips dinner often, and it begins to show. On the occasions when he's able to make it over to Mikey's for dinner, Debbie has a less than subtle habit of forcing extra helpings onto his plate. He wolfs them down.   
  
"You work too much," she mutters. "You look like a zombie."  
  
"I have to."  
  
"You're seventeen. What you have to do is take care of yourself."  
  
"Deb," Brian huffs in between bites. "That's exactly what I'm doing."  
  
Debbie makes him promise to stop by the diner every night after work for a free meal. Brian thinks that it's too much, but she insists. He doesn't have much of a choice after that. Mikey has probably told her all the details of his situation. He always does.   
  
Some nights Brian stays overnight at the Novotny house, with his parents' blessing. He and Mikey watch old movies on the TV downstairs until Brian dozes off on the couch. When he wakes up, he finds his head in Mikey's lap and his friend's fingers combing through his hair.   
  
"Sorry," Mikey whispers one evening. "I wish I could do something to help you."  
  
"I'm not your problem," Brian replies drowsily.   
  
Mikey is silent. Brian shifts, looks up.   
  
"Of course you are," Mikey says like it's simple, like it's something that everyone should know.   
  
Brian doesn't remember what happens next. He can only assume that he laid back down and fell asleep, too afraid to accept those words as truth.   
                                                                                             ---------------  
  
It all gets worse.   
  
Plenty of families couldn't afford college. Brian knows that. Debbie, for example, could never send Mikey away on her own dime. But she does her best. The Kinney family has never had financial issues, has never had to worry about a thing.   
  
The question starts to eat away at him. Gradually, and then all too suddenly. While he's driving, while he's with Mikey, but especially while he's behind the counter at work. Why would his parents abandon him like this? He still has a home, sure, but his future hinges on more than a roof and four walls. His parents are still breathing, but his relationship with them will never be the same. It's sad. It's so fucking sad. But more than anything, Brian is just bitter.   
  
Brian's boss is a Croatian man named Saban, who has salt-and-pepper hair and the worst taste in clothing on the Eastern seaboard. The food stains on his shirts certainly don't help much, either. Honestly, he's a slob, but he's actually handsome in a fatherly sort of way. A decent body, a bright laugh. He enjoys making light conversation with his employees in mangled English. He treats Brian well.  
  
Saban keeps a private liquor cabinet in his office toward the very back of the store, but is usually so hammered by the time he departs every night that he leaves it unlocked. During a lonely shift in May, Brian leaves the counter unattended and ventures there. He pulls out a bottle of gin and drains it over the course of three hours.   
  
The act shocks himself as much as it would anyone else. He's never actually been roaring drunk before. He's always been too wary of the lecherous creeps lurking around the dark corners of Liberty Avenue, or the hands that slip danger into guys' drinks. Letting go almost feels good.   
  
Almost.   
  
Brian can't recall if any customers came in that night. If they did, they must have heard him retching in the closet-sized restroom near the back door, must have decided to complete their late-night shopping somewhere else. Or maybe he'd scared them off with barbed words.   
  
Either way, he can't really bring himself to care. After months of endless work, his ethic, his goals, everything has just suddenly evaporated. None of it is worth a thing.   
  
When the new girl, Dana, comes in to take over the next shift, she immediately notices the empty bottle of liquor and Brian's unfocused gaze. She contorts her face into an expression of disgust.   
  
"What the fuck?" she demands. "Saban's gonna' be so pissed when he finds out."  
  
"You gonna' tell him?" Brian practically dares.   
  
"No," Dana grumbles, running a hand through her mop of blonde hair. "I don't need to."  
  
She picks up the bottle and waves it in front of his face.   
  
"This is some of his most expensive stuff," she explains. "You can bet he'll come back soon for an after-hours encore and notice it's gone. You just fucked yourself over big time, Kinney."  
  
"Shit," he sighs.   
  
"Brian, you really shouldn't steal alcohol from an alcoholic. Or, you know, become one. Did something happen?"  
  
Brian shakes his head. Dana doesn't get a chance to interrogate him before he's out the door and walking home, having abandoned his car in the lot after taking in the extent of his inebriation. He focuses on keeping himself upright, and on trying to control the anger rising in his blood.   
  
It's a far walk. Very far. It's cold outside, and the darkness is already well settled in around him. He bypasses the Novotny house, doesn't even think of heading toward the diner. Right now, the thought of food or kindness makes him want to vomit. No, he goes home. To Jack and Joan, though he almost falls down halfway up the long driveway. The front door is open. He turns the knob and enters without a sound.   
  
The foyer is pitch black, vacant. But Brian can hear footsteps in the in the kitchen, and they're leading into the dining room. The delicate clacking of heels. He sees Joan then, setting the table for dinner. She must not have heard him come in, because she appears blissfully unaware of his presence.   
  
Brian slams the front door shut, and Joan jumps, a few forks flying from her hands and clattering to the floor.   
  
"Brian!" she exclaims when she whips around and sees his outline in the dark. "You scared me half to death. I didn't know you were home. Your father and I thought that you'd be spending the night at Michael's."  
  
"You thought wrong. Where's Claire?"  
  
"Studying at a friend's," Joan tells him.   
  
As his mother gathers her composure and the strayed silverware, Brian stumbles into the light. When Joan sets the forks down and looks at him, it's in confusion.   
  
"Brian," she says. "What's wrong with you?"  
  
He smiles broadly, stupidly, holding back a laugh.   
  
"I'm drunk. So drunk, mom, that I don't know how I even got here."  
  
She processes that for a moment, her face growing sadder and harder before she can even begin to find the right words. She must be taking in the uncharacteristic looseness in his limbs, the wetness of his eyes, or the insult riding his every breath.   
  
"You're a disgrace," she spits before yelling over her shoulder. "Jack!"  
  
"You're bringing him into this. Of course."  
  
"He's your father!" Joan argues.  
  
"I'm his fucking punching bag!" Brian shouts, so loudly that his mother has to step back. "And you let it happen!"  
  
She scoffs.  
  
"I've always asked God to make him stop."  
  
"It's been seventeen years," Brian says. "Seventeen years, and you still haven't realized that you can't pray away a mean drunk."  
  
"What the hell is going on?" Jack suddenly demands. Brian hadn't even heard him step into the room.  
  
He's at his son's back, breath hot against his neck. If it were any other man, Brian would probably be turned on. But right now, all he can think of is how easy it would be for Jack to snap him in two.   
  
Brian turns to face him anyway.   
  
"We're talking about you."  
  
"He's been drinking, Jack," Joan says. "Don't antagonize him."  
  
"You little fucker," Jack growls, gripping Brian's jacket at the shoulder and then shoving him into the wall so hard that it trembles. "Is this why you came here? For this?"  
  
"Why else?" Brian replies.   
  
"I thought you'd actually learned a lesson, you know," Jack says. "For once in your life."  
  
"Let me go."  
  
"Apologize to your mother."  
  
Brian looks over at her. She's staring, a hand over her mouth. She's clutching a bit of tablecloth like it's supposed to be some sort of lifeline.   
  
"I'd rather burn in hell," Brian states.   
  
That's when Jack's hands close around his throat, so tight that soon enough he begins to see darkness splashed with red. Brian feels like an animal, clawing uselessly at a trap he should have seen coming.  
  
He wonders if he'll die here in his own house, surrounded by pictures from his childhood and in between his father's fingers. Joan had told him once that after he was born, his father had refused to hold him. Well, he was making up for it now. Ironic.   
  
In the end, there isn't that much time to dwell, because just as Brian thinks he's almost ready to give in, there's a sickening crunch and his airway is open again. He falls to the floor, gasping and with tears in his eyes.   
  
Jack is cupping his cheek and swearing. He looks twice as confused as Brian feels. That's the moment when Brian realizes that he's just punched his father square in the jaw.   
  
"Get out," Joan breathes, her eyes locked on her son. "Just go, before he kills you."  
  
Brian doesn't need further warning.  
  
He stands up and disappears out the door and into the street before Jack can recover. He leaves his neighborhood behind. Then he checks over his shoulder once, twice, three times to see if anyone is coming to track him down, but as he moves from city block to city block the roads are dim and quiet.   
  
He's alone, and his body is fighting him.   
  
When he notices the park coming up on his right, Brian quickly collapses into the grass, depositing the contents of his stomach behind a cluster of bushes flourishing with spring growth.   
  
"Fuck," he swears. He holds back a sob, just looks up at the sky, sucking in air. He stays there for what feels like an hour, until his knees start to ache. The grass had probably stained his jeans. Brian staggers to his feet, using the brick wall of a building for support. He thinks it's the rear of a bank, but he can't be sure. When he looks at it closely he sees that it's covered in tasteless graffiti and amateur poetry that he isn't in the mood to read.   
  
He's more exhausted than ever before. None of those nights working for Saban could possibly compare. He doesn't even feel all that pathetic when he he plops down on the nearest bench and curls in on himself for warmth. Anywhere else would be too far, and Brian tells himself that morning will come soon enough.   
                                                                                              ---------------  
  
Too soon, even.   
  
When Brian wakes up, it's with a cold, dull throbbing that fills his body. He rises and stretches a bit to get his blood flowing again, marveling at how much larger the park looks in the daylight. Cars are beginning to make their way down the street in a consistent flow, and Brian knows that this must mean work hours are beginning.   
  
School hours, too, but he's already decided that he won't be going. Rather, he decided last night, when he left his crappy sedan and backpack in Saban's parking lot.   
  
Oh, right. He stole from his boss.   
  
Brian needs to walk somewhere. Anywhere. He needs to get his mind off of the conversation he'll ultimately have with the Croat. Maybe he'll be let off easy. Saban isn't that much of a hardass, right?   
  
He settles on the diner. He has some cash in his wallet left over from his last paycheck, and he's starving, having missed dinner and breakfast.   
  
He takes a bus. When he gets there, he hesitates before opening the door, but accepts that even if Debbie nags him for his entire stay, she'll still have to feed him.   
  
Brian takes a seat in the first available booth. He hardly has time to take a breath before a menu is slapped down in front of him, violently. Debbie is right there, brandishing a container of hot coffee.   
  
"Where the fuck have you been?" she demands. "Your mother called last night, asking if you were with Mikey. I didn't know what to say. She told me you clocked that dad of yours right in the face and ran off."  
  
As her words and the reality of the night's events sink in, Brian feels paralyzed. His head is throbbing. Debbie appears to notice and takes pity.   
  
"I kept thinking you'd show up at my door after that, Brian, but you didn't. Joan mentioned you'd been drinking like a fish, and thinking of you alone out there on the streets scared the shit out of me. Don't do it again, honey," she finishes. "Not ever."  
  
"I didn't mean to do it," Brian mutters.  
  
"What?"  
  
Deb slides in across from him, her expression of concern deepening by the moment.   
  
"Didn't mean to hit him, baby?" she presses. "Is that what you mean? Christ, kid, tell me what happened."  
  
"I was at work. I raided my boss' liquor stash, got wasted and yelled at my parents. My car is still at the store. I have to go back."  
  
Her eyes widen.  
  
"You'll be staying with us."  
  
"Deb, I never asked if I could," Brian points out.   
  
"I know. That's why I'm telling you," Debbie grins. "When exactly were you planning on going back and talking it out with this guy? Your boss."  
  
"I don't know," Brian confesses. "I'm still hoping that I'll wake up and it'll all be just a bad dream or something."  
  
"Sorry to disappoint you."  
  
Debbie looks around when she hears a loud complaint about slow service. She grumbles a bit, but stands up and looks Brian over one last time.   
  
"I gotta' get this queen his coffee," she says. "I'll get you something to eat for now. During my lunch break I'll take you over to see your boss."  
  
He shudders.   
                                                                                                 ---------------  
  
  
Brian is sitting in the passenger seat of Debbie's car, his heart pounding. He fantasizes about just getting into his own and tearing down the street, never to be seen by Saban again. But Brian doesn't run from responsibility.   
  
"I'll wait out here," Debbie tells him.   
  
"Thanks."  
  
His fingers are wrapped around the door handle, but Brian stops. There's a question that he's been meaning to ask since earlier that morning.  
  
"When my mom called, did she mention anything about my dad? Anything at all?"  
  
Debbie thinks for a second.   
  
"I don't think she did."  
  
"Okay," Brian says weakly. "Look, I won't be long."  
  
He steps out into the lot and makes his way into the store. He walks past the bright-eyed cashier and finds Saban sitting at the desk in his office. He's writing something, his head down, and he doesn't acknowledge Brian until he begins to speak.   
  
"Do you know?"  
  
Saban looks up.  
  
"Yes," the older man answers, his accent heavy. "You can't work here anymore. I don't hire thieves."  
  
"I'm sorry," Brian says, and he means it. "I'll make it up to you. I'll work later, no raise. I won't even complain."  
  
Saban stands up, comes around to the front of the desk where he and Brian are level to one another.  
  
"No."  
  
"I'll reimburse you for what I took. Please, I need this job."  
  
Saban sighs.  
  
"Brian," he begins. "Go work somewhere else. I can't have you here."  
  
His body trembling and with nothing else left to offer, Brian makes one of the hastiest and worst decisions of his life. He moves forward, closes his eyes, and kisses Saban hard on the mouth.   
  
It's sloppy, and desperate, and after the initial shock of it all, Saban pushes Brian away roughly, swearing in his native language.   
  
"Fag!" he finally shouts, wiping his mouth in disgust. "Leave!"  
  
Brian backs out of the office just as the door is slammed in his face. He leans against the nearest wall for support. His supposed failsafe has actually failed. He thought that maybe, just maybe, Saban could be persuaded. But Brian was wrong. Not even his body could protect him anymore.   
  
He was wrong about a lot of things lately. He should have known.   
  
The cashier eyes Brian suspiciously as he flees the store. When he gets outside, Debbie is standing outside her car, an eager look on her face. How the hell is he supposed to tell her what just happened?  
  
"He canned me," Brian exhales, gaining control of his emotions.   
  
"Shit," Debbie offers unhelpfully.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
She places a hand on his shoulder. It's just a little bit of human warmth, but it brings him out of this dark haze he feels but can't see, if only temporarily.  
  
"We'll figure it out. Get in your car, Bri. We're going home."  
                                                                                             ---------------  
  
"Here I am, back again."  
  
"I'm glad you're with us," Mikey smiles. "Seriously."  
  
But to Brian, the next few weeks don't feel real. Debbie makes a quick trip over to his house to pick up some of his clothes, and when she returns, he asks after Jack again. He's never dared to raise a hand to his father before, and so far the consequences haven't presented themselves. It's unsettling.  
  
"Was he there?" Brian inquires nervously.  
  
"Leave it alone, Brian," she says. "Please.  
He isn't worth this."  
  
He finally gives up.   
  
Brian goes to class, but only for a sense of routine. He's already been exempt from all of his finals due to his stellar grades. But it doesn't mean a thing. Next year will just bring another round of obstacles, and this time the only thing waiting at the end will be the terrifying prospect of being some kind of societal leech. No money, no scholarships, and a family that loathes him.   
  
Mikey seeks him out in the halls between classes and tries to make conversation, but Brian finds that his focus drifts and he needs to be pressured into a response. He doesn't know what to say anymore. Nothing seems worth the effort.   
  
When they get home every day, Brian lays on the couch and sleeps until dinner. Trying to rouse him becomes almost impossible. Mikey has formed a habit of watching him from the other end of the room. He's terrified that Brian is changing, losing his grip. Brian no longer leaves the house for anything other than school. He hasn't even been to his usual haunts on Liberty Avenue.   
  
"Brian, honey," Debbie whispers one day, rubbing circles into Brian's back as he rests. "Are you sick? We'll take you to-"  
  
"Fuck off," Brian snaps.   
  
"Brian..." Mikey gasps in disbelief. Brian has always been rough around the edges, always too honest, too confident. But he's never been rude to Debbie before. Or to him, for that matter.   
  
"Fucking teenagers," Debbie grumbles.  
  
She then simply sighs, stands up, and goes back to the kitchen, where a pot of chicken soup is sitting on the stove. It's what she always makes when she cares too much. That's when Mikey knows that she hasn't let this go, not at all. She's afraid, too.  
  
But there isn't anything that they can do.  
  
Brian regrets every tantrum, every lapse in gratitude toward Mikey and Debbie. He doesn't feel in control. He just feels like an empty weight. Only tobacco smoke can make him full again. He's sorry for smoking on Mikey's front porch, though. He's sorry for everything.   
  
That friday, Brian is called down to the guidance office during the middle of an English review. His heart sinks. Five minutes later, he checks in with the assistant, then goes down the hall into the assigned office, where he's horrified to see his counselor sitting directly across from his parents.   
  
"Wait," Jack says, just as Brian is about to turn back and leave. It isn't a plea, though.  It's a command.   
  
"Brian, I know this is a surprise," the counselor starts with a cheap smile. She's a petite woman with dark skin whom Brian hasn't seen since course registration last spring. "But please sit down. We have something very important that we'd like to discuss with you."  
  
Brian closes the door before he relents, taking a seat in the chair conveniently set out for him. He's positioned halfway between his parents and the counselor. He glances over at the woman's desk. There's a placard that reads "Ms. Emma Mason".  
  
"I suppose there's no use beating around the bush, Brian. Have your parents ever abused you?"  
  
Brian looks at her in anger and disbelief.  
  
"You're asking me that with them in the room? What the fuck kind of counselor are you?"  
  
"Calm down," Joan orders.   
  
Mason ignores the attack.   
  
"One of your teachers has reported unusual behavior on your part," she explains. "That you seem troubled. They've also told me that they've recently seen bruises around your neck. Several weeks ago, in fact."  
  
Brian catches Jack's eye. There's a warning for him there: don't say a word.  
  
"Brian is always rough-housing with his friends," Joan groans. "There's nothing sinister going on here, Ms. Mason."  
  
"I don't see any bruises now," Jack chimes in. "Seems to me that this teacher was just seeing things."  
  
"Brian?" Ms. Mason presses.  
  
"He tried to strangle me. Put his hands around my throat and almost choked the fucking life out of me," Brian spits. "Happy?"  
  
Mason's eyes widen. She immediately takes out a pen and notepad and begins writing.   
  
"Fuckin' liar," Jack shakes his head. "Miss, this kid is a troublemaker with a temper. We try our best-"  
  
"Mrs. Kinney, have you noticed any abusive behavior from your husband?"  
  
Brian holds his breath. His gaze fixes on his mother.   
  
"I've never seen anything of the sort,  
Ms. Mason," she says. "My son is lying."  
  
Brian looks at his father and sees a greying man. A miserable, controlling excuse for a husband. And yet, Joan sits beside him like a lap dog. He'll never understand it.   
  
"Alright," Mason sighs. "Social services will probably pay you a visit. I'm sorry to have had to call you in like this."  
  
The Kinney family exits the office and heads to the main entrance of the school. Jack goes off to use the restroom, leaving Brian alone with Joan.   
  
"You're a bitch," he hisses.   
  
"Call me whatever you want," she replies. "I'm not going to let you ruin this family."  
  
"What the hell goes on inside your head?" he chokes out. "What did I do to make you hate me so goddamned much?"  
  
He never gets an answer. Joan decides that she's heard enough and storms out into the parking lot. Brian doesn't stick around for Jack. Instead, he goes back to English, and waits out the remainder of the day with a sickening weight in his stomach.   
  
Years later, he'll look back on his life and realize that this was the tipping point. But for now, he's blessedly ignorant. He doesn't think past the next moment, and then the next.   
  
He goes home with Mikey, but when Debbie goes into the kitchen to start dinner, Brian slips out into the streets and finds himself on Liberty Avenue. The first few hours he spends dancing, before his breath starts to hitch whenever he thinks he might just be happy now that he's here. He isn't.   
  
Brian needs a drink, but doesn't trust himself to keep it at just one. He needs sex, but the thought of someone touching him makes him nauseous.   
  
Fuck it.   
  
He catches the bartender's eye with a practiced smirk, his eyes still adjusting to the flashing lights. He shoots whiskey for dinner, and downs a couple ecstasy tablets as a late night snack. The drinks start coming in one after another from guys looking to get laid. Brian soon has enough alcohol in his system that by all rights he shouldn't even be conscious, and so he proceeds with his second mission objective.   
  
The man of his choice is dark-haired and almost twice his size, with hard muscles and a demeanor to match. Normally Brian avoids this type, but he doesn't really think of that as the guy drags him into the back room after a succinct chat and pins him so that one side of his face is against the wall.   
  
And Brian certainly doesn't think of that as his jeans are tugged down and a tanned arm reaches up to grip his hair. Tight.   
  
This one likes it rough. He rocks into Brian once, then twice, slowly at first but gaining momentum. Brian can't help but gasp each time, the power in the other man's hips becoming too much. He's glad when it's finally over, and the other doesn't notice the tears brimming in Brian's eyes.  
  
When they emerge from the back room together, the guy buys Brian one last beer.   
  
"You were sweet," he says before vanishing.  
  
Brian drinks straight from the bottle, and as he does so, he catches sight of something in his peripheral vision. Someone sitting next to him at the bar.  
  
"Too tired," he groans, expecting it to be someone else looking for a fuck.   
  
"I've been out looking for you for hours," barks a familiar voice.   
  
Brian looks at its source, and finds Mikey glaring back at him. He looks so innocently handsome here. He doesn't belong.   
  
"Mikey?"  
  
"Yes, it's me, you moron. What's wrong with you?"  
  
Brian blinks.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Oh my god," Mikey swears. "How much have you had to drink? Are you on drugs?"  
  
"Nothing I haven't tried before," Brian answers.   
  
"I'm taking you home," Mikey says, grabbing his friend by the arm and pulling him toward the exit.   
  
"For what?" Brian asks, his voice breaking. "What do I have to look forward to? I don't want to wake up again, Mikey."  
  
Mikey hears it. Clearly, despite the voices around them, and the pulsing club music. He stares at Brian.   
  
"What did you just say?"   
  
"Nothing," Brian lies. He's panicking now. He shoves his way past Mikey and into the anonymity of the crowd. From there, it's easy for him to escape out to the road.   
  
He doesn't really know where he's going, not at first. The drugs and alcohol have put him into a haze. The weight of the bottle in his hand stabilizes him. As he walks, passerby eye him over in lust, in pity, in suspicion. He supposes that he warrants all three.   
  
He loses track of time, but soon enough he arrives at a park. It seems oddly familiar, and that's when Brian recalls that it's the same one from the night all those weeks ago, where he ran after Jack had struck fear into his very core.   
  
The thought makes him hurl the beer bottle at the brick wall. The wall with all the cracks and random poetry. Now more than ever, he doesn't want to read it. The bottle shatters, and Brian curses.   
  
Then he looks down at the glass, a little too fascinated.   
  
It could be so easy. Just a bit of digging and he'd fade out like he'd never even been there. He likes the idea. No more hollow feelings when his heart beats. Nothing could be better.   
  
He crouches down and picks up a shard. It'd been a dark green back in the light of the bar, but here it's black as pitch. He turns it over in his hand, touches it with the tip of his index finger. It's sharp. He positions it over his left wrist, but his dominant hand is trembling, failing him. The drugs at work. He switches it over so that the glass is now perched over the other wrist, his left hand in control.   
  
Brian thinks of Jack as he pushes down with all his strength and drags the glass through his veins. It's more painful than he thought, and he yells out. It goes by quickly, and when he's finished he throws the glass somewhere out of sight.   
  
He stands, slowly, fighting the natural urge to apply pressure to the open wound. Brian doesn't look down, but he can feel the wetness streaming down his palm and onto his fingers.   
  
He feels cold almost immediately. He begins to walk, further into the park, where he's never been. He thinks he hears someone calling his name, but it's only his imagination, he tells himself.  
  
But Brian hears it again, louder this time. He's just about to turn around when suddenly he lurches forward.   
  
The ground is gone from beneath his feet.  
  
There's a sense of weightlessness and then a sharp pain, until finally, there's nothing at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who would ever think that green apples could mean so much?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry about the delay in posting this. I had a really stressful week with school, and a lot of this fic is stressful just to write. I had to split this chapter in half because of its length. Hopefully this isn't too much to chew.

Brian wakes from darkness to a world whiter than bleach. A square room, somehow full with emptiness. The light has volume.  
  
It isn't all that sudden. He's eased into it, as if his body had drifted away but his mind was still keeping count of the hour, like he'd never really left. When his eyes flutter open, he feels like someone kept waiting for a long time. He's so exhausted. So impatient for an explanation. Of what?  
  
Brian looks over at the machines next to his bed, beeping in rhythm, and then down at his arm resting palm-up beside him. It's bandaged. When he tries to move it, he finds that he can't. A jolt of panic runs through him.  
  
That's when he remembers. Everything. And the room spins as he clutches what he now realizes is the blanket of his hospital bed. He can barely see now, doesn't want to. His tears are only water, but they burn like acid.  
  
He hears running steps, light and precise, and in a matter of moments there's a gentle pressure easing the material from his fingers and lowering him so that he's flat on his back once more. Human pressure, warm and sincere.  
  
"Brian, I'm a nurse. My name is Nina. It's alright, you're in the hospital now. Allegheny General. Everything's gonna' be okay."  
  
He gazes at her, taking in the sight of her sky blue scrubs and short brown hair. She has a kind face with dimples and worried eyes.  
  
"I shouldn't be here," he says. "I'm not supposed to be here."  
  
"Don't say that," she whispers soothingly.  
  
"What should I say?"  
  
"Ask me how long Mikey has been waiting to see you," Nina answers.  
  
Brian holds his breath, just stares at the nurse until he's able to move his jaw again. He didn't expect to hear that name from those lips.  
  
"Mikey's here?" he breathes.  
  
Nina looks pleased.  
  
"He went home for the night, but he'll be back for visiting hours tomorrow. Your parents are waiting in a room down the hall. I'll go get them for you."  
  
"Wait," Brian says, just as she's about to step away from the bed. There's the ghost of a reach in his useless limb, but his voice will have to do. "Don't."  
  
"Why not?" Nina seems confused.  
  
Brian looks down, veiling the flash of anxiety across his face.  
  
"I'm just tired. I don't want to fall asleep in front of them."  
  
Nina looks at him a little strangely, but she bows her head and pats him lightly on the shoulder. Brian wonders briefly how much she really knows about him. Is she just doing her job? Or does she know what he did?  
  
"I can't feel my arm," Brian suddenly says.  
  
"The doctors will come talk to you soon, I promise. I'm allowed to give you something to help you sleep. Do you want it?"  
  
"What else am I on?" he asks.  
  
"Just something to relax you," Nina responds. "Do you still want these?"  
  
Brian nods, and soon there are two pills in his left hand, and then on his tongue. Nina hands him a small plastic cup full of water and he drinks it all.  
  
It doesn't take very long for the pills to work their magic. He feels like he's rocking, in a way. A ship at sea. He drifts off staring directly into the light on the ceiling above his bed. It's the sun, and the only thing that's guiding him. But it's enough. He closes his eyes and feels relief.  
                                                                                                                                  

* * *

 

  
  
The morning arrives swiftly. Brian doesn't see Nina again after that, and he comes to the conclusion that she must have had her room assignments switched up. Maybe she'd requested it. Maybe she just couldn't stand the sight of some miserable kid who'd tried to off himself.  
  
He can't keep his parents away from him forever. When they and Claire enter his room just as the doctor leaves, Brian can't meet their eyes. They all just stand there before Joan finally pulls over a chair and sits next to the bed. Jack remains still beside her, his hands buried in his pockets.  
  
Claire simply stares at Brian with tired eyes.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
"I'm peachy," Brian answers. He doesn't know what else he could possibly say. Luckily, nothing else is necessary. There's an awkward but brief silence before his mother speaks.  
  
"Why?" Joan asks, almost too quietly to hear. Brian knows exactly what she's referring to.  
  
"Don't fucking ask me that," he returns. He's surprised when Jack doesn't try to hit him. In fact, the man doesn't even flinch.  
  
"Jesus, Brian," Claire mutters sadly.  
  
"If you'd died, you would have gone to hell," his mother continues. "You should know what God thinks of suicide."  
  
"Joan, be quiet. Listen," Jack intercedes, his voice calm. "If this was about what your mother and I said to you a few months back, it was a load of shit, alright? We'll pay for you to go to college."  
  
"What?" Brian asks.  
  
"We always planned on it. We just wanted to teach you a lesson."  
  
Brian can't think.  
  
"You lied to me?"  
  
It's more of a statement than a question.  
  
"We thought it might make you more-"  
  
"More what?" Brian demands.  
  
"Agreeable," Joan supplies. "Respectful, even."  
  
"You looked me right in the face and lied to me," Brian seethes. His next words are mocking. "And you want me to respect you? To love you? Fuck you."  
  
"I'm sorry," Jack sighs.  
  
"You," Brian glares at him. "You don't get to say that to me."  
  
The doctor comes back. He must notice the look on Brian's face, because he politely requests that the family leave the room while he looks over his patient.  
  
"Just for a few minutes," the man adds. "I know you haven't had much time with your son."  
  
"Don't come back," Brian tells them himself. "Not today. I don't want to see you."  
  
The doctor sighs as he watches the Kinney family storm out of the room. Jack is swearing under his breath. They must be nearly hallway down the hall when he can be heard snapping at Claire.  
  
"Five minutes too much for you?" the doctor asks Brian.  
  
"Too much," Brian confirms. His eyes remain dry, thank God.  
  
The hour moves forward.  
  
The gravity of Brian's actions weigh on him more and more as the drugs wear off and he slowly comes back down to Earth. Even if the evidence weren't carved into his body, his doctor certainly wouldn't let him forget it. He rattles off Brian's damages one after another, like gunfire. He has a painfully annoying habit of repeating himself, Brian notes. Either that, or his words simply echo in Brian's skull. Both scenarios are entirely possible.  
  
His name is Dr. Brodsky, and he looks too much like Jack. Every sentence from his mouth feels like an accusation.  
  
"It may take quite a while for you to regain control of your dominant hand," Brodsky says. "We've done our best to repair the damage, but what you really need is time."  
  
Brian knows that the cut was deep. Too deep. In between his doses of pain meds, he can feel the throbbing in his forearm.  
  
But there's more, of course.  
  
"You're also noticeably underweight, Brian," the doctor goes on, after forcing Brian to step onto a scale. "How often have you been eating?"  
  
The second question comes just as Brodsky leads him off the scale and asks him to pull down the upper half of his hospital gown so that he can examine Brian's torso. Brian looks down at himself in a way that he hasn't in months, and what he sees steals his breath. His stomach is slightly concaved, and his lower ribs are prominently displayed, like a starving dog's. He looks up and stares straight ahead, his green eyes wide.  How couldn't he have noticed this? Had he been living that far in his head?  
  
"I eat plenty," he replies faintly, not even believing himself. "I just...throw some of it up, sometimes."  
  
"On purpose?"  
  
"No," Brian huffs.  
  
"After drinking? You came in here with a lot of alcohol in your system," Brodsky infers too well for his liking. "Your body won't benefit from that at all."  
  
"I thought I was eating enough," Brian practically growls. He's becoming aggravated by all this examination, all this prodding.  
  
"You weren't," Brodsky returns, sharply.  
  
"Are we finished?"  
  
The doctor completes his notes and tucks the clipboard under his arm.  
  
"For now," Brodsky acquiesces. "But Brian, you'll need to speak to a psychiatrist soon."  
  
"A shrink?"  
  
"Call it what you want," Brodsky continues. "You tried to kill yourself. That can't be cured with gauze or transfusions. You need help."  
  
His voice becomes more gentle as he says it. And just like that, he doesn't remind Brian of Jack anymore.  
                                                                                                                              

* * *

 

  
  
Brian spends a good part of his day sleeping and staring out into the hallway, watching as visitors and hospital staff alike pass by. He's also watching for his parents, but they never come back, and for that he's thankful. He feels guilty for how he treated Claire, but for all her love for him, her loyalty is still with their parents. Brian doesn't really understand how two siblings can be so different.  
  
It's a dead end line of thought. He disposes of it the moment he sees Mikey step into his room late in the afternoon, on the cusp of evening.  
  
A few strides later, and Brian is wrapped in Mikey's arms. The embrace is close, comforting, unrelenting. Over Mikey's shoulder, he can see Debbie approaching with a timid smile. Just when Brian expects Mikey to let go, he doesn't.  
  
"Mikey?" he whispers.  
  
"You're an idiot," Mikey quivers, and that's when Brian knows that he's crying. "You're such an idiot."  
  
"I've always followed your example," Brian  quips as he hugs him tighter.  
  
"Shut up," Mikey chuckles through his tears.  
  
Finally, they release each other. Mikey takes a seat, and so does Debbie. They both look like they haven't slept in days.  
  
"How are you holding up?" Debbie cuts in. Her voice is soft, like she's afraid her usual vigor will overwhelm him.  
  
"Freezing," Brian admits. "They never turn down the air in this place and these gowns are thinner than paper."  
  
They laugh, though it's weak. Brian sees Mikey dab at his eyes with his sleeve. He feels guilty, and swallows hard.  
  
"Sorry I took so long. I had to wait until my mom was off work. I was here all last night," Mikey tells him. "They wouldn't let me see you, though. Not even once you were stable."  
  
"How did I get here?" Brian finally has the courage to ask. Not even his doctor or the nurses had bothered to explain that much. It was a mystery. "How did you know where I was?"  
  
"Brian," Mikey seems puzzled. "They didn't tell you? I'm the one who found you last night. I followed you from the bar."  
  
Brian wants to say something, but he grows very quiet. He thinks back on those painful hours and what he can remember. He recalls the voice in the park, calling his name. Desperately, again and again.  
  
"Shit," Brian says. "I heard you. I didn't know."  
  
Mikey's gaze narrows.  
  
"You don't know what happened? At all?"  
  
"I blacked out," Brian explains.  
  
"Nothing after that?" Mikey presses. There's an edge to the conversation now. An anger. At least, that's how it seems.  
  
"Um, I'm gonna' go find the ladies' room," Debbie excuses herself. She stands and quickly exits out into the hall, leaving her son and his best friend alone to tear each other apart.  
  
"Is there something you want to say?" Brian grumbles. Mikey stares him down.  
  
"I found you laying in a drainage ditch," Mikey says, his voice level but with something darker lurking beneath. "A ditch, Brian. A fucking ditch? That's really how you feel about yourself, isn't it? You hate yourself that much."  
  
Mikey's voice breaks at the end. His mouth opens to release a shuddering breath.  
  
So that's what'd happened when it all went dark. Brian doesn't tell him that he'd fallen into that drainage ditch by accident. His vision was blurred, just a single wayward step. It's almost funny, in a way. But he can't laugh. Not even a little bit. He can't laugh because the reality is far worse: he hadn't even thought that far ahead, deciding where to die. At the time, he hadn't even cared.  
  
Brian looks at Mikey again. He had thought that what he was sensing was anger, but now sees that it's sadness, too. Mikey feels as helpless as he does.  
  
"Mikey," Brian scratches out, moving his numb arm so that his fingers rest on top of his friend's hand.  
  
"I had to drag you out, you know," Mikey goes on. "I didn't think I would be strong enough, but I was, and I did it. You didn't even move. Your blood was all over me. I thought you were dead."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"No," Mikey shakes his head. "I don't want you to apologize."  
  
Brian breathes in deeply before speaking, exhales.  
  
"I was."  
  
"What?" Mikey questions.  
  
"I was dead," Brian repeats. "I still am, in a way. I can't explain it. I don't even know why I'm telling you right now."  
  
"You're telling me because you're my best friend," Mikey insists. "Because I deserve to know why you think you shouldn't be alive. And you deserve to be told that it's bullshit."  
  
Brian is so focused on Mikey's words that he doesn't notice the hand at the back of his neck, holding him in place. Not until Mikey leans forward once more and takes Brian into his arms.  
  
"You also deserve to be told that you look terrible," he murmurs.  
  
"Wow, asshole," Brian retorts. "Like you're one to talk, with tears all over your face. Get me a mirror. I need to see."  
  
"Trust me. You don't. It'd ruin your day."  
  
Brian gives a small smile, then looks down at where the wall meets the floor, so that his chin is resting on Mikey's shoulder. He doesn't think that he could say this any other way.  
  
"You saved me."  
  
"And I'd do it again," Mikey asserts, his voice grave. "Just don't make me have to."  
                                                                                                                               

* * *

 

  
  
A few days later, around 6pm, Brian is sitting alone with Debbie as he picks at a tray of chicken and mashed potatoes. Mikey is off searching for a vending machine that he heard was somewhere nearby.  
  
"Did you really want to die?"  
  
Brian is less shocked by the question than he'd thought he'd be. He could almost feel it coming. Debbie just stares back at him, waiting patiently for an answer.  
  
"I thought I did," Brian replies. He fixes his gaze on the food in front of him. When he swallows a final mouthful, he doesn't pick up his fork again.  
  
He feels a touch on his jaw just then, and before he can react, Debbie is holding his chin between her thumb and index finger, forcing him to look at her.  
  
"You're the most beautiful fucking kid I've ever seen," she smiles.  
  
"What about Mikey?" Brian asks, confused.  
  
"It's different," she tells him, taking her hand away. "You'll get it someday."  
  
Brian falls asleep that night trying to figure out what she meant.  
                                                                                                                      

* * *

 

  
  
"When they told me your name, I thought you'd be a guy," Brian confesses. "No offense, of course."  
  
The psychiatrist shrugs.  
  
"There aren't that many women named Billie," she says.  
  
She's nearly as tall as him, with short bottle-blonde hair and freckles. Her work attire doesn't quite match. It's only slightly maddening. Brian soon learns that her full name is Billie Weaver, and that her infinite well of patience exhausts him. There's something wrong with everyone in this place.  
  
"So," she finally begins, tapping her pen gently against the spine of her notebook. "Why would you say that you're here, Brian?"  
  
"In the hospital?"  
  
Billie nods.  
  
"I fucked up," Brian admits with a pathetic chuckle. "I slit my wrist and couldn't even die efficiently. Didn't you already know that?"  
  
"Why did you attempt suicide?"  
  
"I was drunk and high and had no idea what I was doing," he excuses.  
  
"Try again," she dares.  
  
"Are you friends with Dr. Brodsky, or something?" Brian asks.  
  
Billie grins.  
  
"That explains so much," he says as he rolls his eyes.  
  
"I said try again," Billie prods.  
  
"Fine," Brian submits. "My life is in the shitter. At the time, it actually felt pretty good digging that chunk of glass into my wrist. Now I see it was wrong."  
  
Billie waits.  
  
"How have you felt, leading up to now?"  
  
Brian knows what she wants to hear. If she doesn't, he won't be able to leave. He'll pander.  
  
"When I was about eight years old, my dad decided to teach me how to swim," he starts, hesitantly. He hates these fucking stories. "He took me over to the deepest corner of the pool, held my arms to steady me, then pushed me away. He told me I'd have to figure it out on my own if I wanted to make it."  
  
"You must have been scared," Billie comments.  
  
"I flailed around for a minute before he dragged me back over to the ladder," Brian admits. "Before that, I honestly thought I was gonna' die. That's how I've felt for months, now. The same way."  
  
"Afraid, helpless?"  
  
Brian almost snorts. How gushy is this woman going to get?  
  
"I'm fine now," he clarifies. "I've got it out of my system. I'm ready to go."  
  
Billie is writing, her head down. Brian watches her, waiting for some kind of positive response, an approving nod, anything. But it never comes.  
  
"Thanks for waxing poetic, Brian," she sighs. "Really, it's interesting to hear. But you already told me what I needed to know."  
  
"What?"  
  
"What you said about fucking up," she explains. "You're not here because of that. You're here because that's what you call surviving."  
  
"What the fuck do you know about it?" Brian snaps. "You just want to throw me in a psych ward so that you'll have a job."  
  
She shakes her head.  
  
"You'll be committed indefinitely, but if you show some improvement, you can always leave."  
  
"I don't want to think about it," he waves her away.  
  
Billie stands up to leave, but stops briefly halfway between Brian and the door.  
  
"Hey," she says over her shoulder. "That was a real story, wasn't it?"  
  
"Yeah. It was."  
                                                                                                                          

* * *

 

  
  
The day Brian switches wards, Debbie brings him a trash bag full of his own clothes, the ability to wear them his only new privilege. There are a few other items, too, including a toothbrush.  
  
"How many times have you carted my stuff around from place to place?" he asks. Mikey is with her, and so their smiles are the last things that Brian sees before Billie leads him inside. They rendezvous with a nurse, who directs Brian to his room. The nurse leaves almost immediately after that. Billie lingers, her hand on her patient's shoulder.  
  
"You're going to be alright," she tells him. "I can tell you're a strong one."  
  
"None of them came. Not even Claire."  
  
"Brian," Billie's grip tightens.  
  
"It's alright," he shrugs. "I don't want them here."  
  
Nevertheless, she starts Brian on his first round of antidepressants. He takes them dutifully, so unlike the way he used to pop pills at the clubs. That Brian seems a thousand miles away now. This one is just a heartbeat in a skeleton. He knows that something, somewhere along the line, went very wrong. It wasn't supposed to be this way.  
  
Brian likes the pills. They make it easier to survive every time he climbs into his dormitory-style bed and lies awake thinking of Mikey and his 30 year-old roommate who won't stop clicking his fucking tongue and sobbing halfway through the night.  
  
The rules are hard to get accustomed to.  He can't go to use the bathroom without a nurse waiting outside the door. His floss is kept locked away when not in use, which makes little sense, considering that shoelaces are perfectly acceptable. He can only have visitors between 6 and 8pm during the week, and from 2 to 8pm on weekends. Phone calls aren't a private affair. They have to be done near the main lounge on a set of landlines, where anyone can overhear Brian's end of the conversation.  
  
Despite this, Brian calls the Novotny house frequently during those first few weeks. His right hand still shakes a little bit when he picks up the receiver, but when he presses it to his ear, his hold is firm. Physically, he's recovering.  
  
Mikey tells him about all the new comics he's been reading, all the things he plans on doing once Brian comes home, the crazy summer he has planned. Brian assures him that he'll be out soon, of course, even though he can't know for sure. He wishes that he could be.  
  
Debbie steals the phone every so often and demands to know how Brian is holding up, and if the food is good enough. Brian eases her fears by telling her that he's been making a conscious effort to put on weight, and it's beginning to show.  
  
It isn't a lie. The next time Brodsky pops in to check up on Brian's recovery, he pats him on the back and congratulates him.  
  
Sometimes Brian asks to go to the bathroom even though he doesn't need to. He'll spend five minutes staring at his own reflection, wondering when his eyes began to look so much older than his face. He'll run a hand through his hair, massage his temples with his knuckles, and then open the door.  
                                                                                                                         

* * *

 

  
  
There are group meetings twice a day. They aren't required, but Brian is strongly encouraged to attend. He does, which surprises even himself. He reasons that there's hardly anything better for him to do, and he refuses to be like the pathetic ones who curl up on their beds and sleep their days away.  
  
The sessions rarely have a specific topic of discussion. For the most part, everyone just talks about their feelings, or their own personal struggles. Drug addiction comes up frequently, and homesickness, too. That's usually Brian's cue to stare at the wall.  
  
After about two weeks, Brian finally notices Sam Kinzer, who rapidly complicates everything.  
  
Sam is of a height with Brian, with pale skin desperately in need of sun but otherwise smooth, and short red hair so dark that it's nearly brown. He has a rich, resonating voice. He talks too fast.  
  
Brian wonders how he hasn't seen him before. There aren't that many other patients within Brian's age range in the ward, let alone attractive ones. But Brian's eye for such things is usually so keen that his apparent lack of observation throws him.  
  
"You look at me a lot," Sam says to Brian one day at lunch, setting down his tray and sitting across from him. "It's okay. I look at you too."  
  
Brian smirks.  
  
"Of course you do."  
  
"I was hoping to make you blush," Sam laughs, and that's when Brian sees that his eyes are brown. Dark and round.  
  
"What, like some virgin?" Brian responds. "Right. It takes a lot to make me blush."  
  
"I'd like to try a little harder, then."  
  
From there they exchange names and not-so-stealthy glances. They'd like nothing more than to find a quiet corner to fuck in, but privacy is very hard to come by here. Especially during lunch hour. Brian thinks that's how they get to just simply talking. About everything and anything. Family, friends, and mistakes. Sam says more than Brian does, and that's alright. It's like there was a floodgate inside of him holding back all the words until a good audience finally swung his way. He probably feels relieved, and Brian doesn't feel so lonely anymore.  
  
"How'd they trap you here?" Brian asks.  
  
"I overdosed," Sam replies. "Heroin."  
  
Brian hesitates before going further.  
  
"Was it on purpose?"  
  
"Yeah," Sam admits. "Depression. I've always had it. Drugs don't mix well with it."  
  
"How did you know?" Brian continues. "That you were depressed, I mean."  
  
"You tried it too, didn't you?" Sam digs.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Shit," the other mutters. "Well, I guess the day I really admitted it to myself was was back when I was fifteen. I'm twenty now. I was running around on my family's farm near Harrisburg, checking the traps I laid out, only I found one that I forgot about from a few days before. There was a dead fox in it, and it was really hot outside. There were maggots all over it. I didn't want to look at it, but something about it seemed kind of familiar. I felt like I was festering too, on the inside. I just needed the image to make the connection."  
  
"That's how I felt, too," Brian says. "But it just came out of nowhere, and I don't fucking know why."  
  
"That's just how it seems," Sam explains. "But it's always there. It's been there since the day you were born. Sometimes it just takes a kick, like in your case. As for me, I was just born sad. I wish I wasn't. My parents love me, but I still ended up here."  
  
"God, we're fucked up," Brian chuckles softly.  
                                                                                                                           

* * *

 

  
  
"I want you to set goals for yourself," Billie tells Brian, pushing a pen and paper in front of him during one of their regular sessions. "For one year from now, wherever you want to be, whatever you want to be doing. I'll help you."  
  
"A year? One rotation, then."  
  
"A revolution, actually. A rotation is one day, a revolution is one year. Once around the sun," Billie corrects. "It's alright. Even geniuses make mistakes."  
  
He raises an eyebrow, amused, while he stares at the paper.  
  
"I don't have any goals," Brian sighs. "The whole brush with death thing kind of cleared out my aspirations."  
  
"What about college?" Billie asks. "With grades like yours, you could get into Carnegie Mellon."  
  
"And I'd pay for it with what money, exactly?"  
  
"Scholarships," Billie answers. "I know you've tried before, but you probably just applied too early."  
  
"Alright," Brian says with little confidence, scribbling down the word 'college' on the open page. His hand shakes, and the writing comes out sloppy. "I guess it can't hurt."  
  
"Any idea what you would study?"  
  
Brian doesn't even need to think before answering.  
  
"Advertising," he says.  
  
"Why advertising?" Billie inquires, curious.  
  
"Because you can make anyone think anything," Brian explains. "You can make something and it's a part of you that nobody can ignore."  
  
He pauses.  
  
"My dad would hate that I chose that."  
  
Billie doesn't reply right away, but instead reaches down to the edge of her desk, and tugs over a bowl full of apples that Brian didn't even realize was there.  
  
"When I don't want to hear someone else's shitty opinion, I just eat one of these while they're talking. The sound of chewing is great for blocking out the white noise," she says. "I like the green ones, myself."


End file.
